


Mirrors

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Ficlet, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellatrix gives her master what he seeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Holiday ‘drabble’ for the-amazon-star [on tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/66814629392/musing). Title is a fitting Natalia Kills song.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mostly out of boredom, Tom tests the rope again: firm with a solid hold. They chafe a little around his wrists where his sleeves have been pushed up. He can’t help a small smirk; her spells are truly something grand.

His are better, but with his wand in his pocket and his arms firmly tied behind his back around the chair, there’s nothing he can do with it. His feet are tied to the legs of the chair, his eyes blindfolded. The spell hit him as soon as he stepped into the room, whooshing him into the middle and strapping him down tight enough to sting. He’s glad he took the de-aging potion before coming here. He had to kill a few Muggles to get the requisite blood, but it was worth it. 

She likes him this way, he knows. His full head of brown hair is back, his sharp features, his handsome face. She likes him any which way, but this makes her blood rush faster. It makes his able to move faster, makes him feel more _alive_. The last step in his guilty little pleasure is her presence—he hears the door creak open behind him, and he tilts his head in the direction of the sound.

Her heels click along the stone. He doesn’t need his eyes to know what she looks like. A tight black corset, of course, frayed skirts, maybe tattered sleeves. A thing for black and lacework, his Bella. Her wild hair will be a gorgeous mess down her back, her makeup done to perfection. He wonders which instruments she brought with her today or if she’ll simply shake her wand out into a whip like she’s sometimes prone to do.

He hears the crack through the air and sucks in a breath; that’s it. The whip. 

“You look good today, my love,” she coos at him, leaning forward for a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips are cracked. Her voice is almost condescending, her hand landing on and running hard down his shoulder. His robes were pulled from him by the spell, a black-button up and black pants left. All black today. All he can see is the darkness, but the chuckle in his ear is a burst of colour. Her whispers are hissed so well they’re almost Parseltongue. “ _I like it._.”

He’s a smirk and a half. She would like him if he looked like Wormtail. She drifts around him; he can feel her skirts brushing along his leg. 

Then he’s stepped on, and he lets out a gasp of more surprise than pain; her stiletto digs into his lap, close to his inner thigh. She’s putting her weight on it, drifting forward—he knows from the way her cold breath ghosts over his face. Another kiss to his other cheek, oddly pleasant in contrast to her foot. She’s affectionate today. 

But she’s also cruel. If he could see, he’s sure he’d be getting a face-ful of her ample chest, her breasts nearly falling out of her corset. They always are: teasing him. He grits through his teeth, “I want this blindfold off.”

He’s slapped across his face so hard that it whips to the side. The imprint of her hand burns. There’s a gash on his cheek from where her poorly-forged wedding ring slit him. He hisses in a warning, “Bellatrix—” but he’s slapped again.

His ear’s bitten, and she purrs next to it, so lovingly in contrast, “That’s _mistress_ to you.” He can’t help the dry chuckle. He may have created a monster.

He’s proud of her, in a way, glad in others. He’s a powerful man, and he needs a powerful woman. Her hand runs down his chest, sharp nails starting to pry apart the buttons, and she croons, “I don’t care what you want. I’m going to give you exactly what you need...” He grunts as her fingers graze the hem of his pants. He needs that. 

But she pulls away, and something harder, colder is pushed down him, something leathery, rough: the end of the whip. It traces the line of his chest and exposed stomach. He’d still like to see it coming. 

She pets and holds his chin, holding it up to face the head he can’t see. “You’re in my den now,” she hisses. “And you’ll play by my rules. We both know it’s what you want...”

He shivers. It’s too true. 

The whip falls from him, and her shoe lifts off his leg. He lets out a breath of relief, only to be crushed a moment later, a weight falling into his lap—she’s straddled him. Her thighs are to either side of his body, parted wide by the chair, and he can feel the parts of her bare skin against his pants between the skirts and stockings. Her arms wrap around his shoulders like a snake, the whip in one hand and the free fingers stroking fondly though his hair. She purrs like a cat. He knows she loves being here. 

She betrays herself with her own hips. They start to grind into him at her own rhythm, harsh but erotic in her hard sort of way, grinding them both together. It isn’t as steady as it should be; he knows she’s having fun. She always thinks of this, thinks of more; he knows from the way she looks at him, the way she follows him about, the way she begs and pleads to be everything he ever asked for. Now he’s the one at her mercy. She ruts into the bulge of his growing cock without shame, and she starts in on the side of his face, on his neck, nipping at and kissing any skin she can reach. Her bites are just a little too cutting, her kisses a little too bruising. She’s a wildcat in bed; he knows this. She forgets her own game in her frenzy, or so he thinks, until her hands are shifting and the whip’s back in play.

She wraps it around his neck so fast that there’s no time to protest, and then she’s tugging it tighter while she grinds faster, groaning her own pleasure and cutting off his air. He starts to choke too fast, head lolling back. The whip crushes against his windpipe. Makes it so hard to breathe. She laughs and she nearly bounces in his lap. He can feel her right above him, so easy, so close, only a few thin layers of fabric to go and he could be inside her, filling her up...

But instead he’s getting dizzy, down to just the instinct of wanting to fuck her and none of the details on how. Lightheaded. He’s not sure if he’s going to come first or pass out. 

Only one hand is holding the whip. He knows because the other grabs his cock through his clothes, suddenly and hard, and Tom’s mouth falls impossibly wider in a coughing, gasping moan. He comes in his pants, shamefully fast, seeing white through the black and knowing blissfully that this is just the first of many pleasures she’ll give him. 

She yanks the whip away with crippling force, leaving him wheezing and spluttering in its wake. His head’s still empty, then just barely coming down. She climbs off his lap and takes her whip with her. He’s left panting desperately, soiled but not entirely spent. 

The blunt point of her stiletto presses into his chest. 

She uses it to push him backwards—the chair clatters to the floor, his head banging against the stone, stars and pain erupting in his vision. More heels clicking, skirts brushing across—she’s standing over him. 

The full weight of those skirts hits his chest; she’s stripping. 

She purrs, “And now the real fun will begin...”

Tom grins like a lion: ready.


End file.
